


is this sound okay?

by flwrpotts



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Rock Band AU, a repost of sorts, gratuitous lyrics lie ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flwrpotts/pseuds/flwrpotts
Summary: The time is 11:37 PM, but the day is far from over.Octavia Blake is painting her nails a bloody shade of red. Raven Reyes is fixing an amp, shirtless for no discernible reason. Monty Green and Jasper Jordan are sharing a joint and playfully bickering over sheet music. And in the center of the room Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin are in a screaming match, one that culminates in Griffin throwing a drumstick across the room, where it hits the wall inches from Green's head.“It's pretty much an average Tuesday night,” says Reyes, when I inquire about the general chaos of thestudio-cum-living space.or: a rock band au





	is this sound okay?

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally posted over the summer, but is now condensed! please enjoy my shameless indulgence in both bellarke and my trashy music taste!

january. 

_ I found blood and I saw stars/ _

_ In the back seat of your car  _

(written by Octavia Blake, in eyeliner on the bathroom mirror)

 

The time is 11:37 PM, but the day is far from over.  Octavia Blake is painting her nails a  bloody shade of red. Raven Reyes is fixing an amp, shirtless for no discernible reason. Monty Green and Jasper Jordan are sharing a joint and playfully bickering over sheet music. And in the center of the room Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin are in a screaming match, one that culminates in Griffin throwing a drumstick across the room, where it hits the wall inches from Green's head. 

“It's an average Tuesday night,” says Reyes, when I inquire about the general chaos of the  studio-cum-living space.

Bellamy Blake doesn't believe in fate. According to most sources, neither does Clarke  Griffin. But there is very little else to explain the chain of events that led to  _ The 100 _ , a studio-mandated collaboration project between the two hottest rock bands of our generation.

* * *

 

The rock duo  _ Easy  _ burst onto the scene at only seventeen years old, the punk rock  brainchild of Clarke Griffin and Raven Reyes. 

Clarke grew up the privileged only child of Abby and Jake Griffin, the former owners of  Ark Records. 

“I pretty much grew up around music,” Griffin says, when asked about her upbringing.  “Playing felt more like an inevitability than a what-if situation, if I'm being honest. Of course,” she adds, with a shark-like grin, “Nobody was expecting it to be rock music.”

Clarke grew up classically trained in piano and violin, and was even described as a  “prodigy’ by Thelonious Jaha, a family friend and owner of  _ City of Light _ , a major record company for classical music. In fact, Griffin produced several bodies of work as a child, achieving notoriety in a very small niche. 

Of course, her charmed world all came unraveling when she was fifteen. Jake Griffin was  incarcerated, after coming forward about Ark Records’ tax evasion and fast-approaching bankruptcy. He was murdered two months later as a result of prison violence, a devastating blow.

Clarke refuses to talk about her father to interviewers, and the one question I risked trying  ( _ how did your father’s death shape your passion for music?)  _ earns me a terrifying glare from Reyes and an order to “fuck off and die.” Wisely, I choose to jump to a different topic. 

All that's known on the subject is that in the year following her father's death Griffin put  down the violin and picked up the electric guitar, much to her mother’s dismay and the rock world’s delight. 

Clarke has a face straight out of a fairytale, with blonde hair that sweeps her shoulders  and cornflower blue eyes. Looking at her, it's easy to see why people (read: Bellamy Blake) have taken to calling her “princess.” However, under that pretty face is a spine of steel and focused dedication to the music. 

Across the country, Raven Reyes grew up in a trailer park on the outskirts of Las Vegas. 

“I learned how to fend for myself from a young age,” she tells me, with a cynical half-smile. I know without asking that that's all I'm going to get: while many rumors have arisen of Reyes’ abusive, alcoholic mother and absentee father, she has remained firmly close-lipped on the subject. 

In fact, the only other confirmed fact of Reyes’ childhood is Finn Collins. 

While Collins is now a small-bit player on the Disney Channel (he's the one with the hair) he and Reyes were inseparable as children, engaged like a shot straight out of high school. It’s widely rumored that he’s the one that gifted Reyes her very first drum set at the age of twelve. 

Of course, everyone knows the next part of the story. 

Raven flew out to visit her fiancée, who was a freshman at NYU, only to  walk in on him and his girlfriend, none other than Clarke Griffin. Upon finding out about one another’s existences, the two girls promptly dumped him and struck up a friendship.

On the formation of the band: “Yeah, Clarke and I became close friends really fast, and  that rapidly turned into us jamming together, and eventually we were like  _ fuck it _ , let's just start a band,” says Reyes, “the name came about when we were dumping Finn, and he told us he did it because ‘we were so easy.’” 

“To be around,” finishes Clarke, and the two girls dissolve into laughter, a well-practiced  joke. 

The two girls finished an EP in mere months,  _ I Don’t Want Love _ , which achieved cult  status almost instantly. It's a rough, scrappy album, the perfect soundtrack for getting into a fight with your mother or burning photos of your ex. Raven plays drums and bass, occasionally coming in for eerie harmonies with Clarke, who sticks with singing and electric guitar. 

_ “I Don’t Want Love  _ was really a catharsis for us, a way to process things,” says Griffin.  “We really weren't expecting for it to become as big as it did.”   

But while the album is full of angry, punky tracks, the duo also excels at the slower,  moodier stuff. In fact, it was a throwaway track, “Writer in the Dark,” that drew the attention of record executive Markus Kane. _I_ _  am my mother's child/I'll love you till my breathing stops/I'll love you till you call the cops on me  _ bites Reyes, the only song on the album sung entirely by her. It's a deeply  confessional song, especially for the seemingly self-confident Reyes, but the emotional vulnerability has served them well. 

While Reyes and Griffin’s sound has become far more refined under Kane’s expert eye,  the gutting honesty that originally brought them into the spotlight has only become sharper over their past two albums,  _ Day Old Blues  _ and  _ Girlie _ . 

But  _ The 100 _ wouldn't be complete without the famous foursome that makes up  _ Delinquents _ . 

Bellamy and Octavia Blake grew up in small town in Massachusetts, just  an hour out from Boston. According to most accounts, the siblings did not grow up with very much. But at the age of twelve Bellamy started sneaking into shows on the weekends by lying about his age, soon infecting Octavia with the same love of music. Eventually Bellamy saved up enough to buy a beaten up guitar from the thrift store, teaching himself to play by listening to the radio. He started playing in shows when he was fourteen, starting and subsequently getting kicked out of a string of bands. 

“I was pretty wild back then,” he tells me with a lazy grin, making it easy to see why  People Magazine named him 2017’s Sexiest Man Alive. 

However, when Bellamy was eighteen and Octavia had just celebrated her thirteenth  birthday their mother died of a heroin overdose, leaving Octavia in Bellamy’s custody. 

“Bell basically raised me,” Octavia stated in an interview, “It just became  harder after our mother died. He dropped out of college and worked three jobs to keep us afloat and pay off all the debts Mom owed.”

Music was an outlet for both siblings in that first year, and they eventually began writing  their own material. The project, loosely titled  _ Training Wheels _ , started making the rounds in Boston’s music scene, much to the Blake siblings’ surprise. 

_ Training Wheels _ was an emotional sucker punch of an album, a meditation on personal  tragedy presented as a punk album. The album was rough, but not without finesse, with a passion so raw you could practically hear Bellamy shredding his fingers bloody.

Markus Kane heard the Blake siblings play a show and signed them the same night. “I  knew they had something special,” he tells me over the phone, “I couldn't believe that the both of them were self-taught. 

In fact, Kane’s only condition was that the Blake siblings had to expand the lineup and p ick a name that wasn't “Bellamy and Octavia.” They grudgingly agreed, and recruited Octavia’s childhood friends: Jasper Jordan and Monty Green. 

Jasper and Monty grew up like brothers, the respective only children of well-off  scientists. They met Octavia in grade school and quickly developed a close friendship. They also happened to play over a dozen instruments between them, when they weren't getting high. According to urban legend, Kane only heard them play one song before agreeing to add them to the lineup, and thus,  _ The Delinquents  _ was born.

The next three years saw  _ The Delinquents  _ release three more albums:  _ Aha Shake  _ _ Heartbreak, Ghosting,  _ and  _ Jumping Fences _ , each achieving more critical acclaim than the last. The addition of Jordan and Green added a versatility to the band, offsetting Bellamy’s punk rock sensibilities with Jordan’s slick, tongue-in-cheek verses. There's no better example than  _ Jumping Fences _ ’ opening track, “The Beers.”  _ And I will remember that summer/ As the summer I was taking steroids/ ‘Cause you like a man with muscles/ and I like you  _ sings Jordan, voice raw and unflinchingly earnest. 

The sheer originality of  _ The Delinquents _ ’ music has served them well, with their past two  albums going almost straight to platinum. Their newfound fame has also led them to hire security in the form of another childhood friend, Nathan Miller. While purportedly a bodyguard, Miller’s job seems to entail everything from being a sounding board for ideas to moderating the Blake siblings’ fights.

Regardless, Miller’s work is about to become a lot more complicated with the addition of  two more people- Clarke and Raven.

 

One month ago, Ark Records- now run by Markus Kane- announced that  _ Easy _ and  _ The  _ _ Delinquents  _ were merging for a joint album, hesitantly titled “The 100,” and the world promptly lost its shit. 

“It wasn't as shocking a decision as it seems,” Kane tells me, “All six of them are  fantastic artists, and the studio saw a joint album as a prime opportunity for collaboration. We think they're going to create something really special.”

“They did it for the money,” Raven tells me, a tad more blunt, “The PR teams billed us as  rivals when we both started to make it big in order to generate more publicity. Going from enemies to bandmates is getting everyone talking.”

And the name? “We called it  _ The 100  _ as a joke, because we all had one hundred reasons  we didn't want to do the collaboration,” Jasper tells me, thick with the laughter of someone not entirely sober.

But it seems their protestations were in vain, as I am now sitting in a studio in the heart of  Boston, watching the magic happen. Or in this case, the madness.

* * *

 

“Ark Records rented us out motel rooms for the entire six months,” Griffin tells me on  my first day, “But Monty set off the smoke alarm on our first day and we work late, so eventually it seemed easier to just stay here most nights.”

This explains the studio, which is a bizarre mix of college dorm and serious artistic space.  The lounge is crammed with pillows and amps, the bathroom sink houses toothbrushes and guitar picks alike, and there are lyrics scribbled on every imaginable surface, including body parts. In short, it's utterly overwhelming. I'm only here for the week, but by the third day, I begin to understand  _ The 100 _ ’s insane work schedule, which goes something as follows:

5:30 AM: Bellamy wakes up and brews enough coffee to caffeinate a decently sized army. He then sits at the kitchen table and reads, usually something historical and deeply nerdy.

6:00 AM: Raven appears, unbelievably chipper for so ungodly an hour. Even more unbelievably, she goes for a run, making me understand how a girl who subsists primarily on ramen and snarky insults has a body like a supermodel. 

7:00 AM: Raven returns from her run and chugs a frightening amount of black coffee. She then joins the elder Blake at the kitchen table and works on her latest “project.” Aside from being a musical genius/goddess, Reyes is also a tech wizard. Currently, she's trying to make “a pair of drumsticks that shoot sparks, because how awesome would that be?” I am awed and vaguely frightened. 

10:00 AM: Octavia enters the kitchen, complaining loudly about how loud everyone is. She then pours a coffee with enough sugar to kill a small household pet and disappears to steal all the hot water from the shower.

11:00 AM-12:00 PM: The rest of the band members appear one by one, in various states of dishevelment to pour coffees and brood at the kitchen table. An argument is quickly struck up, usually Monty. By my third day, I know any mention of what Fleetwood Mac’s best album is is bound to start a bloodbath and that I should leave while I can. 

2:00 PM: Everyone tries to forget their residual bitterness and move from arguing about other people’s music to arguing about their own. Bellamy plays all the music that was recorded the day before, ruthlessly flensing anything they doesn't live up to his standards. Clarke looks innocuous scribbling in a notebook, but I soon learn it’s only so that she's well-prepared to deliver a soul-crushing list of everything wrong. Jasper comes up with an unbelievable amount of ideas for fixing everything from the sloppy bridge to the pitchiness at the end of one of the tracks. These ideas range from “sampling the Star Wars theme song” to unbridled genius. 

3:30 PM: Monty informs everyone that he is minutes away from “starvation and subsequent death.” Clarke suggests a lunch break. Take out is ordered and immediately scarfed down, and Jasper makes mudslides in a blender that has appeared from thin air. 

5:00 PM: Everyone is feeling pleasantly buzzed, and the writing process begins. Octavia is dubbed “Words Master” and collects the snippets of lines that people have scrawled around the studio. Bellamy starts to play something, Raven backs him up, and Clarke starts to fit the lines together. Everything seems to be going well. 

5:30 PM: Chaos strikes. Bellamy tells Clarke that the lyrics sound “like the diary of a lovestruck sixteen year old.” An epic fight ensues. The other band members seem to not notice the natural disaster happening and take the brawl as a signal for a break. Jasper produces a joint that he and Monty split, scribbling sheet music onto the back of a McDonald’s napkin. Octavia paints her nails. I cower in a corner. 

7:00 PM: Blake and Griffin are no longer speaking. The other four are unfazed, and the group comes together to make dinner. Bellamy angrily cooks a pot of pasta, Raven makes salad, and Octavia bakes a pie. Jasper and Monty whip up a colorful series of mixed drinks that make my head spin. Clarke oversees and gives “helpful” advice. 

7:30 PM: Halfway through dinner, Clarke has a brilliant idea, and drags everyone back out. Bellamy plays the same melody, only this time Clarke flips the lyrics and gets Octavia to sing the lead vocals instead of the backup. Like a magic trick, it all falls together, and I suddenly understand why these scrappy kids are some of the greatest artists of our generation.

10:00 PM: The song is hesitantly titled “Easier Said” and put on the shelf for tomorrow, where it will be revised. Everyone decides it's time to get absolutely smashed. 

11:30 PM: For members of  _ The 100 _ , music is a business. But when the sun sets and the mixed drinks come out, it becomes a game. There’s a brief but vicious scuffle over whose turn is first, one that results in a game of noses. Jasper's reflexes are still blunted from the earlier pot, and thus is forced into going first. Clarke plays the bass, strings together a rhythm, and then Jasper has to improvise a song. Points are added for showmanship, but taken away for property destruction, and Miller judges the best song at the end of the night. Jasper is unfairly fantastic at the game, much to everyone else's chagrin. 

_ This is not a test or an S.O.S/I am no longer on a quest to get girls undressed  _ he quips, winking at me. Raven and Octavia are passionate haters of the game, and thus fuck their turns up as quickly as possible- Octavia by singing about Monty eating her leftover Chinese food and Raven by refusing to sing at all. Finally, only Bellamy and Clarke are left. For all Bellamy and Clarke purport to loathe one another, they work scarily well as a team. This is evidenced when the two decide wordlessly to duet their turn, causing widespread heckling from the audience. 

_ It's a quarter after one/I'm all alone/and I need you now  _ Clarke sings, Bellamy immediately coming in for  _ and I said I wouldn't call/but I lost all control/and I need you now _ . It's a sad, pretty duet, far closer to country than anything either of them have ever done. 

“Not bad, princess” Bellamy says after the final chorus, just a touch out of breath. Clarke  just rolls her eyes, stealing a puff of Monty’s joint goodnaturedly. The duo are unanimously declared the victors, and Octavia pours “failure shots” for the losers.

3:00 AM: I wake from a fitful sleep, still more drunk than I've ever been in my life. Seconds later, I realize the background noise that woke me is voices. Bellamy and Clarke hunch over the kitchen table, a binder of handwritten sheet music between them. I catch snippets of whispered singing, the faint tap of a pen against hardwood. I drift back to sleep, only slightly smothered by Octavia’s hair. 

Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin are writing songs together in the middle of the night,  and the world of rock music is never going to be the same. 

 

_ Make sure you kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face/ _

_ There are lessons to be learned/ _

_ Consequences for all the stupid things I say  _

(written by Jasper Jordan, in permanent marker on the refrigerator)

 

_ “The 100: In the Studio” will be a monthly column following the progress of Ark Records’ newest punk project. Written by Maya Vie. _

 

* * *

 

february. 

_ Everything I love is on the table/ _

_ Everything I love is out to sea _

(written by Bellamy Blake, on his arm in permanent marker)

Marcus Kane arrives on a Tuesday. 

The day starts off innocuously enough. I wake up with a blistering headache- product of  the cutthroat drinking games I am conned into by Monty and Jasper every night. Coffee is brewed, takeout is ordered, “friendly” squabbles erupt. It's mid afternoon before anything resembling the writing process begins to take shape. 

The song they're working on was written last night, if Clarke and Bellamy’s dark circles  and the burn mark on the kitchen floor are anything to go by, but the sound is unlike anything I’ve heard before. The beat is reminiscent of  _ Delinquent’s  _ earlier stuff- fast, angry- but the lyrics are undeniably Clarke’s. Somehow, the fusion of the styles creates something an entirely new, an alchemy as brilliant as it is unexpected. 

_ Say, say, my playmate/ won't you lay hands on me _ spits Bellamy, with an intensity I've  never seen before. He’s intense in a way that is nearly frightening, so different from his typical goodnatured surliness. 

Behind him Clarke and Octavia thrash away on guitar perfectly in sync, while Raven drums with an unbelievable athleticism. Even Jasper and Monty transform from the loveable goofballs I have come to know them as into serious musicians, Monty on bass and Jasper crooning the backup vocals. It's  _ The 100 _ in action, and I am so enraptured I don't even notice the CEO of Ark Records entering the room, flanked by Abby Griffin and a small army of assistants. 

“Kane!” shrieks Octavia, delighted,  and I remember the rumors that the Blake siblings  lived with Marcus for a few months, right after they'd been signed. Even Bellamy looks pleased to see the CEO, though he's still sweaty from exertion. 

Clarke looks significantly less pleased to see Kane and her mother, offering a perfunctory hug to each of them, but remaining uncharacteristically silent. “What brings you to Boston?” she finally asks, as Monty digs through the kitchen to find tea bags.

Marcus hesitates, and the mood in the room shifts. Unsurprisingly, it's Abby Griffin that  finally answers.

“We’re going to be honest with you, projections for the album aren't looking good. " People think that  _ The 100  _ is just one of the studio’s ploys to make money-”

“It is just one of the studio’s ploys to make money.” says Clarke, causing her mother to  level her an icy glare.

“Regardless, people need to see that the six of you are capable of playing together. We  need to make people  _ believe  _ in  _ The 100 _ .”

“And how do you expect us to make people ‘believe’ in us?” asks Bellamy, looking more  than a little skeptical.

“That's why we’re here,” says Marcus, uncomfortably optimistic, “We want you to  perform a cover show.”

The room explodes with exclamations, but Kane continues on, undaunted. 

“Each of you gets to pick a song to cover, any style you like, and we’ll secure the rights  for it. It'll be a six-show set, maybe seven, and it should help drum up the publicity we need to make  _ The 100  _ a success.”

“What the  _ fuck, _ ” says Octavia.

“Watch your fucking language,” Bellamy retorts absently, ignoring his little sister’s eye  roll. 

“We’re in the middle of writing an entire  _ album _ . When do you expect us to find time to  prepare an entire cover show?” asks Clarke, bracing up for a fight. 

“The show will be in two weeks, here in Boston,” says Abby. Her tone leaves no room  for discussion on the matter, but  _ The 100  _ are undaunted. 

If the noise in the room was loud before, now it's deafening, but the elder Griffin  manages to silence the room with a single hand.

“Enough. I realize the situation is not ideal, but we wouldn't have booked the show if we  didn't think you could handle it. You have twenty four hours to pick your music, and two weeks to prepare. Any questions?”

The room is silent, but the sullen glares from all six musicians speak volumes. 

“Alright, then. Marcus and I will send you the remaining details.”

With that, Kane and Griffin, along with their fleet of assistants, whisk out of the room as  quickly they came in. Clarke pulls out a bottle of vodka almost as quickly.

“Drink up, bitches!’ crows Octavia, “We’re totally fucked!’

* * *

 

The next two weeks pass in a blur of alcohol and anxiety, the sounds of  guitars being tuned and arguments being fought ringing out from the studio at all hours of the day and night. I am fairly certain Clarke has not slept since Kane’s announcement, and everyone is quick to pick a fight. I personally witness Octavia nearly shank Jasper over what setting to put the toaster on.

Despite the chaos that has consumed the studio, there is something else, too: the subtle  pulse of genius. It's not so much a thought as a feeling- the way my breath catches in my chest when Octavia goes up an octave, or watching Monty switch instruments halfway through a song without batting an eye. In between stealing clothes and squabbling over ramen, I feel incomparably lucky to be here, in this cramped studio with these people, watching the magic happen.

The show is on a Friday night, in a sweaty club in downtown Boston. I’m lounging  around in the dressing rooms, watching everyone prepare for their first live show together. 

In the studio, there's no time for hair or makeup, and all clothing is basically communal  property. I've seen the same pair of skinny jeans worn by all six band members in the space of one week. So it's something of a shock to see Octavia smudging on smoky layers of eyeliner, or Clarke twining back strands of hair into an intricate braid. Even Jasper’s general disarray seems to be an intentional choice rather than a product of passing out in the bathtub. 

Almost as fascinating as their appearances are their routines. Clarke and Raven have an  intricate getting ready routine that includes a secret handshake, cold water, and three Red Bull's. Bellamy smokes a cigarette outside with Miller and doesn't talk to anyone. Octavia does some fascinatingly complex stretches and blasts 90’s angry girl rock. Jasper and Monty act like they normally do, which is to say that they smoke a blunt and tell stupid jokes. 

Finally, Sinclair, the stage manager, comes in to tell them they're on in five. I can feel the  adrenaline pulse through the room, but Clarke is stoic. 

“Circle up, guys,” she calls, grabbing Bellamy and Monty’s hands in her own.

I'm content to watch from the sidelines, but before I know it Jasper has caught my hand  and tugged me neatly into the circle. If anyone is put off by my presence, they don't show it, and I feel a surge of warmth run through me. 

“I know we haven't had a lot of time. But we've worked too hard for this to let it go to  waste. I believe in all of us, and I know that we can do this,” intones Clarke, looking like she's about to go into battle. 

“We’re gonna kick some serious ass,” says Jasper.

“I'm gonna kick your asses if you fuck up, so keep it together,” retorts Bellamy.

“Enough,” says Clarke, in an eerily perfect imitation of her mother, “We all know what  we're doing. Octavia, watch that bridge on your song. Rave, no throwing bottles at audience members,  _ even if  _ they catcall you. Jasper, Monty, don't light up on stage. Let's do this.”

“No advice for me, princess?” asks Bellamy, clearly smug. 

“Don’t gel your hair like that, it looks terrible,” she retorts, effectively ending the circle. I  pretend not to notice Bellamy covertly ruffling his hair in the mirror. 

Before I know it I am being shuffled into the audience by a terse Miller, and the band  disappears behind the wings. I order a vodka tonic at the rundown bar, barely having time to pay the bartender before the hysterical cheering cues  _ The 100’s  _ entrance.

They don't bother with small talk, immediately launching into Bellamy’s pick, “Scar  Tissue” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It's an unusual choice for the elder Blake- his picks usually veer towards the loud and angry variety, but the contrast serves him well. 

_ Soft spoken with a broken jaw/step outside, but not to brawl/autumn’s sweet we call it  _ _ fall/I'll make it to the moon if I have to crawl  _ he drawls into the mic, voice distinctive even over the hordes of fans singing along.

And this is what makes Bellamy such an excellent musician. Even when he's singing  angry, fast rock, you can still hear the loneliness and resentment that churn underneath the surface. The chorus-  _ With the bird I’ll share this lonely view _ \- is brimming with a melancholy that is entirely private, yet accessible to a screaming audience. 

Of course, it doesn't hurt that Clarke is a brilliant guitarist, improvising the solo with an  ease that seems impossible. The guitar melds with Bellamy’s voice, making the cover seem like something entirely new. It's that same dynamic- Bellamy and Clarke combining what they know best to create something altogether different.

The song ends to raucous cheering, and Bellamy runs a hand through his hair in a gesture  that reads as arrogant, but I now know to be the product of embarrassment.  However, I don't have time to dwell, because  _ The 100  _ barely pauses for applause before  transitioning into Octavia’s song, No Doubt’s classic “Just a Girl.”  It's the perfect song for Octavia- fun, angry, brimming with energy. It also complements  her brash charisma, the stuff that allows her to command a stage just as easily as her brother. 

_ ‘Cause I'm just a girl, little ol’ me/ Well don't let me out of your sight  _ she bites, all  predatory grin and leather pants. Where Clarke’s voice is smoky, Octavia’s voice is thin and high, nearly glassine. It's striking, especially when juxtaposed with angry girl pop-rock. 

The song serves as a much-needed reminder that Octavia is a talented and innovative  musician in her own right, not just as a footnote to her brother’s talent. Because where Bellamy is raw talent and Clarke is refined precision, Octavia is the bridge between them and the rest of the world, the only one able to translate their bizarre psychic bond into real life. Simply put, she is the linchpin that holds  _ The 100  _ together.

By the time Octavia finishes with one last wail, all six members of  _ The 100  _ are slick with  sweat and unearthly-looking in the blue lights of the club. I watch as Monty and Jasper do their weird self-high five, and then Monty is jogging up to the main mic, catching Octavia in a hug along the way. 

As per usual, Jasper and Monty team up for Monty’s pick, Weezer’s raucously fun  “Buddy Holly.”  _ I look just like Buddy Holly _ / _ and you're Mary Tyler Moore  _ sings Monty, bouncing with an 

energy that seems impossible for someone so stoned. 

It really is a rather brilliant spectacle; Octavia and Clarke shredding their guitars hard  enough to make me worry about them breaking, Jasper running around the stage like a mad rabbit, shirtless for no discernible reason. Even Bellamy is grinning something feral, while Raven holds the entire song together- the eye of the storm. 

“It's just a good song,” Monty tells me when I later question him on his choice, “Weezer  was like...the first band that became famous for being uncool. They always sounded more like the nerdy kids fucking around with instruments in the garage because they didn't get invited to the party than the kids throwing the party. And Jasper and I  _ were  _ those nerdy kids that didn't get invited to the party. So it seems fitting to, y’know, pay tribute.”

In typical Masper (read: Monty + Jasper) fashion, “Buddy Holly” bleeds smoothly into  Weezer’s top hit, “Island in the Sun,” with Jasper on the lead vocals and Monty taking the backup. It's such a fluid transition I don't notice it until it's already over.

_ Makes me feel so fine I can’t control my brain  _ croons Jasper easily, his manic energy melting away into a lazy confidence. Somehow, he manages to produce a blunt halfway through the song and lights up, winking at Clarke when she glares daggers at him. 

Suddenly the grimy club has become a tropical paradise, two thousand crop-topped adolescent girls and grizzled punk rockers singing along with hands thrown up in the air. I am doused in sweat, pressed up against complete strangers, with beer split down the front of my dress, and yet I am laughing along with the crowd, blowing a sarcastic kiss to Jasper when we make eye contact.

However, “Island in the Sun” is only a momentary respite from the punk rock, because  after Jasper/Monty’s combined showdown is Clarke’s turn. Despite knowing the song in advance, it still sends a chill down my spine when Clarke strikes up the opening chords of Hole’s classic “Celebrity Skin.”

Beyond the physical similarities of Clarke and Hole’s Courtney Love, they also play with  the same sort of anger- relentless, complicated, brilliant in its fury. Clarke’s delicate good looks and proper upbringing make it easy to forget just how hard she can rock, but it's impossible to ignore when she's growling  _ when I wake up in my makeup/tt's too early for that dress/have you ever felt so used up as this?  _ into the microphone. 

I realize with a start that there's blood on her fingers from shredding the guitar too hard,  and her t-shirt has gone sheer with sweat, but Clarke appears not to notice, completely absorbed in the music. 

But halfway through the number, one of her guitar strings snaps, leaving a bloody  incision down her middle finger I can see from the audience. In a flash, Bellamy takes over the part, seamlessly coming in for the chorus ( _ you better watch out/on what you wish for/it better be worth it)  _ while Clarke fixes the string with a ruthless ease.

She comes back in only a few seconds later, now dueting with Blake. The combination of Clarke’s smooth, low voice with Bellamy’s gravelly rasp is a wonderful and peculiar magic, adding a new dimension to the song that wasn't there before. 

Bellamy doesn't drop out after the chorus, but continues on backup vocals. It's a choice  that seems intentional, and I would have thought they planned it had I not seen Clarke gushing blood.  She plays the rest of just as hard as before, either not noticing or not caring about the  blood steadily dripping onto the floor. Bellamy sings along just as passionately, grounding the song with a seamless chemistry impossible for artists to fake. 

The duo finishes to screaming from the audience, and Clarke shoots a breathless grin  towards Bellamy, which he returns with a pleased smirk. 

Finally, it’s Raven’s turn. 

Raven has been very open about her passionate dislike of singing, telling me that she'd  “rather undergo waterboarding” than have to take lead vocals in an interview. Nevertheless, she comes out from behind the drum set for Jasper to take her place and goes up to the front of the stage, glowering. It's something of a miracle Abby even convinced her to sing, but I am perpetually grateful that she did. 

Her cover is “Back to Black,” the Amy Winehouse hit. It's a pick well suited to Reyes-  not only does it accompany her lower register, its ballsy, brash humor appeals perfectly to Raven’s sensibilities. 

_ “He left no time to regret/kept his dick wet/with his same old safe bet _ she sings dryly,  pulling her dark, silky hair out if its ponytail in a practiced motion. The dudebro a few feet away from me wolf whistles and yells something not suitable to be repeated, elbowing his buddies. I’m about to go over and give him a piece of my mind, but before I can Raven flips him off with both hands, her grin a promise of violence. The man visibly wilts, looking all sorts of terrified.

Raven is undaunted, and breezes through the rest of the song ( _ You go back to her/and I go  _ _ to back to black).  _ The second she finishes her hair is back in its trademark ponytail and she is walking back over to her drum set, dismissing the audience’s applause. 

There's a shuffling from a crowd- is the show over? But Clarke reclaims the mic, and  addresses the audience directly for the first time all night. 

“Hello, Boston! We’re  _ The 100 _ , and we’re so honored you came out to listen to us play  covers of some of our favorite songs. But how would you like us to play an original song?” she asks, and the audience promptly loses its shit. The teenage girl next to me actually passes out (don't worry, her friends caught her).

Bellamy seizes the microphone and leans in close. “This is called ‘Wolf Like Me’” he  says brusquely, before throwing himself into the song. It's the same one they were working on when Abby and Kane first arrived, but it still leaves me breathless.

_ Dream me, oh dreamer, down to the floor/open my hands and let them weave into yours  _ he sings during the bridge,  _ open my heart and let it bleed onto yours. _

It doesn't take much to see that the song’s a hit. A mosh pit has opened up in front of the  stage, people are screaming, and the entire stage is bathed in an unearthly blue light. Bellamy is at the center of it all, spitting the lyrics like it's the last time he’ll ever be able to sing. 

The song ends with one last chorus, and Clarke chirps a “Thank you, good night” into the  mic before the stage lights are extinguished and the club is plunged into darkness. 

When the house lights come up a few seconds later,  _ The 100  _ are gone and roadies are  breaking down the set and packing up the instruments. It's an abrupt transition back to reality, and I rush to get to backstage.

After arguing my way into the dressing rooms (Miller likes to pretend he doesn't know  who I am) I immediately find the band members, hyped up on adrenaline. 

Jasper and Monty are doing a dramatic rendition of Clarke’s guitar string snapping, one  that includes explosions and stage diving. Octavia is cranking up her music and dancing around, occasionally getting pulled into the boys’ performance, while Raven muses on the possibility of  _ actually  _ having explosions on stage. Clarke and Bellamy are sitting on one of the couches, Bellamy bandaging Clarke’s finger whilst simultaneously chewing her out for being so reckless. 

“-could have gotten seriously injured, Clarke. You're not seventeen anymore, you can't  just do whatever the fuck you want and assume it'll turn out okay.”

Clarke tolerates his lecture goodnaturedly, chugging a Gatorade that Raven threw at her  head. I'm certain I even catch a faint smile on her face when Bellamy begins lecturing her about  _ the nature of responsibility.  _

“What are we waiting for? Let's party!” shouts Octavia when Clarke’s finger is finally  done being wrapped in gauze. Jasper wraps one lanky arm around me, another around Monty, and the seven of us head out the door, ready for what the night has to bring.

_ You are water twelve feet deep/ _

_ And I am boots made out of concrete/ _

\- written by Monty Green, on the grimy table at a bar

_ “The 100: In the Studio” will be a monthly column following the progress of Ark Records’ newest punk project. Written by Maya Vie. _

* * *

 

march. 

_ So I guess I'll go home/ _ __  
_ Into the arms of the girl that I love/ _ _  
_ __ The only love I haven't screwed up

(written by Raven Reyes, on the toaster)

The scandal breaks on a Tuesday. 

One minute everyone is draped around the lounge, eating Chinese food and discussing  hypothetical apocalypse situations, and the next Monty is scrambling for the remote and hissing at everyone to “shut the fuck up and listen.” 

I see why a minute later, nearly dropping my ramen noodles when Clarke Griffin’s naked  body flashes across the television screen, a TMZ reporter in the background smugly giving the details of her nudes leak.

“Just minutes ago, at least fifteen naked photos of none other than Clarke Griffin were  released, apparently volunteered by an anonymous source. Griffin is the front runner of the punk rock band  _ Easy _ , a name that seems ironic in light of recent events. One has to wonder how such a scandal will affect Griffin’s career-”

“Turn that shit off” snaps Bellamy, before wrestling for the remote to do it himself. 

Phones have already started to ring shrilly, but they're ignored in favor of everyone  turning to look at Clarke, who has gone deathly pale in under three minutes. 

“Clarke?” prompts Raven, a disconcerting combination of concerned and analytical. 

The question seems to jar her out of her stupor and Clarke finally looks up, steady despite  her lack of color.

“It’s fine. I need to go call Anya,” she replies before walking abruptly out of the room, stopping only to grab the pack of cigarettes Miller offers, stony-faced.  

The door is hardly shut before Jasper is pouring a round of tequila shots, looking profoundly uncomfortable. 

“Who the fuck did this?” hisses Octavia, looking ready to start throwing punches. 

“I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to find out,” Raven replies, already clicking away at her laptop.

“No,” Bellamy interjects, surprisingly forceful, “If Clarke wants to tell us, she will, but it’s her business. Jasper, Monty, you have the most social media followers; go twitter something in support of Clarke. O, start taking calls, make sure they know we don’t condone this. Raven-”

“I’m gonna go check on Clarke,” she cuts him off, leaving no room for argument. 

I watch as the band members spring into action, not even taking the time to mock Bellamy for his ignorance of social media. If I had any lingering doubts that  _ The 100  _ is a family, they’re dissipated as I watch them close ranks around Clarke. 

In under three hours there is entire social media campaign in defense of Clarke (#ProtectGriffin2k18) and Octavia has told no less than eighteen journalists to “fuck off and die,” myself included in that number, before I pledge my undying loyalty. 

Clarke emerges from the back room a few hours later. It’s only mid-afternoon but she looks exhausted, worn thin around the edges. Everyone watches as she makes her way over to the center of the room, faking casualness. 

Bellamy, of course, is the first one to speak. “You alright?” he asks, concern etched into his voice despite the gruffness of his tone. 

“I’m fine,” says Clarke, before bursting into tears. 

Bellamy’s arms are around her in a flash, chin pressed into the crown of her head. I can’t hear what he murmurs into her ear, but Clarke nods, some of the tension melting away from her frame. 

It’s a shockingly private moment to bear witness to, but I can’t look away. If anyone is surprised by this turn of events, they don’t show it, though I do see Jasper and Octavia exchange a covert glance. 

She sucks in a long breath and steps out of the embrace, wiping at her tears in aggravation. 

“So what’s for dinner?” she turns to ask, voice strained with a false brightness. 

Everyone congregates in the lounge to wait for the pizza Raven possessed the foresight to order, draped over one other like puppies. Jasper and Monty, always exuberant in the face of anxiety, are aggressively energetic, supplying everyone with cocktails and only a few distasteful jokes. 

“Oh, Clarke, I forgot to tell you, one of your friends from college called,” says Octavia, “I think his name was Lincoln something?”

Clarke scrunched her nose. “Really, Lincoln? What was he calling about?” 

“He said something about an art project that he wanted you to take part in? I don’t know, it wasn’t a very long conversation,” replied Octavia, a faint flush rising on her cheeks. 

Clarke looks as if she’s going to respond, but before she can, her phone rings. “It’s my mother,” she says, glancing at the Caller ID, “I- ah, I have to go take this. She disappears into the kitchen, looking seconds away from being violently ill. I remember my last time meeting Abby Griffin and wince in sympathy. 

Almost as soon as Clarke is gone there’s a knocking on the door. “That must be the pizza,” Raven says, swinging out of her chair, “One of you better be helping me carry everything in.”

After a speedy game of noses, it is determined that Miller will help Raven, the man in question looking distinctly chagrined. Miller opens the door, but before he can say anything Raven is snarling “What the fuck are you doing here?” the threat of violence clear in her tone. 

The outburst draws everyone else out of the lounge, curious about the disturbance. I round the corner, expecting a particularly pushy reporter. Instead, I find Lexa Woods, looking cool and imposing in a tasteful white button-down. 

“I came to see Clarke,” she says, flanked by two impossibly built body guards. 

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Raven responds icily, maneuvering to slam the door in Lexa’s face. One of her guards wrenches the door out of her grasp, and I watch Bellamy and Miller exchange a glance, clearly sizing up their chances should the encounter turn physical. 

There are several beats of tense silence, and Clarke finally emerges from the kitchen, curious about the disturbance. 

“Is that pizza?” she asks as she rounds the corner, before stopping to take in the scene at the door. She immediately stiffens, posture become aggressively proper in a matter of seconds. Despite her bare feet and worn sweatpants, she suddenly looks like the royalty that Bellamy likes to tease her as, mouth pressed into a displeased line and chin tilted in a way that reads arrogant. 

“Lexa?” she asks, voice flat. She walks towards the door, ushering Raven back with a touch of the hand, and a final piece of the puzzle clicks into place. 

Woods, former model and the reigning queen of New York’s queercore scene, rose to prominence two years ago with the release of her first album, “Mount Weather.” Brash and unapologetic in her music and sexuality, Woods quickly became an icon in the LGBT+ and heavy metal communities. Though no longer professionally modeling, Lexa is still strikingly beautiful, all sharp cheekbones and aggressively lined green eyes. 

This time last year, gossip sites were awash with rumors of a relationship between Griffin and Woods after the two were seen after the two were seen leaving a  _ Grounders _ show together, but the rumors fizzled out almost as soon as they began. 

And yet, a whole twelve months later Lexa is standing in the doorway, an uncharacteristic softness to her expression. 

“What do you want?” asks Clarke, her initial surprise given way to suspicion. 

“I came to tell you in person that it was me who leaked the photos,” Lexa says neutrally, expression giving nothing away. 

The reaction in the room is instantaneous. Both Blake siblings look ready for a fistfight, while Raven seems moments away from murder. Even Jasper and Monty’s default expressions of cheerful obliviousness have given been replaced by twin glares. Clarke, for her part, looks like she’s been slapped. 

“You did  _ what _ ?” she asks, balling up her fists at her sides. 

“Consider it a favor, Clarke. I did it for you,” Lexa replies, apparently oblivious to the tension that has overtaken the room. 

“Really? And how is that?” scoffs Clarke, voice riddled with disdain, but unable to hide the sliver of hurt peeking through. 

“Even after your supposed ‘cover show,’ media response for  _ The 100  _ isn’t exceptional. You’re talented, Clarke. It would be an injustice if the album didn’t get the recognition it deserved. Releasing the photos gave you media exposure you would be hard-pressed to find anywhere else.”

“Oh, I see. You released my naked pictures to fucking TMZ to  _ help  _ me,” sneers Clarke, “And if your plan backfired and spun all the attention on you instead-”

“You can believe whatever you like, but I speak the truth,” Lexa says with an elegant shrug. 

Clarke nodded once, a sharp jut of the chin. “Okay. It’s time for you to leave now, Lexa.” she says, jaw locked and shoulders back. 

For the first time, uncertainty begins to bloom on Lexa’s face. “Clarke, I did this for you. I thought we could work things out-”

“Any opportunity to ‘work things out’ died the second you sent those photos. Goodbye, Lexa.”

The vulnerability in Lexa’s tone disappears so quickly I doubt it was ever there in the first place. “Very well. But someday you will come to understand that I did this to help you.”

Finally, Miller’s wavering patience snaps. “Okay, time for you to go,” he says, reaching for the door. Lexa’s bodyguards tensed beside her, bracing up for a fight, but Lexa makes them stand down with one perfectly manicured hand. She nods at Clarke one last time before walking back down the hall, not a hair out of place. 

Raven slams the door hard enough to make the hinges squeak. “That little bitch,” she exhales, lip curled in disdain. 

“Jesus, and I thought Finn was bad,” adds Octavia. 

Clarke laughs once, a short, bitter thing. “This is going to define my career. She thinks she was helping me, but no matter what I do, what I accomplish, I always will be the girls whose nudes are all over the Internet.”

“Fuck that,” says Bellamy hotly, “You’ll make them remember for what you are- a musician. This will only define you if you let it.” 

“Yeah, and we can always just kill Lexa,” says Octavia, earning a startled laugh from Clarke, “Now, c’mon, we haven’t worked on anything all day.”

It’s a tired cliche, that emotional strife makes an artist’s work better, but one that holds quite a bit of truth.  _ The 100 _ pulls a vodka Red Bull fueled all-nighter, one that leads to the development of “Sometime Around Midnight.”

It’s an ambitious piece, necessitating the hiring of a twelve-piece orchestra for a day, but it’s also some of the best work  _ The 100  _ has ever produced. Tense and meticulous, the lyrics tell the story of a drunken run-in with an ex, made devastating by Jasper’s ingenuity with harmony and Bellamy’s raw gravity. 

_ As you stand under the bar lights/and the band plays some song about forgetting yourself for awhile  _ croons Bellamy in the second verse, holed up in the sound booth.  _ And the piano is this melancholy soundtrack to her smile/And that white dress she’s wearing, you haven’t seen her for awhile _

He stops, frustrated, and Clarke raps on the glass. She makes a face at him and Bellamy’s expression clears. He fiddles with a knob on one of the amps and Clarke, satisfied, goes back to her notes. It’s three in the morning, but the bright lights of the studio make it feel like mid-morning. 

“Hey, the rest of us aren’t tuned into your freaky telepath thing, so we’re gonna need something other than an ambiguous facial expression to go on,” hollers Raven from the corner, twirling a drumstick. Clarke flips her off cheerfully, causing Bellamy to huff out a laugh. 

“God, they’re hopeless,” Jasper stage-whispers to my left, gnawing on a strawberry Twizzler. Monty leans in and says “Yeah, but they’re gonna take  _ forever _ ,” in an equally bad imitation of whispering. 

“What are we talking about?” I ask, snagging a Twizzler for myself.

Jasper stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Clarke and Bellamy!” he explains, loud enough for Monty to elbow him in the ribs in warning. I ignore the bickering the elbowing incident incites in favor of staring at the duo in question. 

Bellamy is recording again ( _As she walks out the door,_ _your blood boiling, your stomach in ropes_ _/_ _oh and your friends say ‘what is it? you look like you've seen a ghost’)_ but as I watch, his eyes drag on Clarke, messily scrawling something on a legal pad. I am reminded, yet again, of that night just a month ago- Clarke and Bellamy hunched over the kitchen table together, and I pencil in a variable to an old equation. 

“-gonna be together by Easter, I’m telling you,” Jasper is saying to Monty. 

“We’ll see,” replies Monty. 

I watch Clarke give Bellamy a thumbs up without looking away from her notes, and think  _ Indeed, we will. _

 

_ Tripping eyes, and flooded lungs/ _

_ Northern downpour sends its love _

\- written by Clarke Griffin, on the studio wall

 

_ “The 100: In the Studio” will be a monthly column following the progress of Ark Records’ newest punk project. Written by Maya Vie. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! none of the lyrics belong to me, and the full list of songs referenced are:
> 
> "indie rokkers"- mgmt  
> "writer in the dark"- lorde  
> "the beers"- the front bottoms  
> "cannibal queen"- miniature tigers  
> "need you now"- lady antebellum  
> "twin size mattress"- the front bottoms  
> "don't swallow the cap"- the national  
> "wolf like me"- t.v on the radio  
> "scar tissue"- red hot chili peppers  
> "just a girl"- no doubt  
> "buddy holly"- weezer  
> "island in the sun"- weezer  
> "celebrity skin"- hole  
> "back to black"- amy winehouse  
> "sometime around midnight"- the airborne toxic event
> 
> friendly reminder that kudos/comments are my lifeblood, and I would be deeply grateful for either! also, come hang out with me on tumblr @flwrpotts


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